A Prison Visit
by ShegoRulz
Summary: AVPM Quirrellmort one-shot, set during the musical. Plagued by guilt, Voldemort decides he can't stand it anymore and makes the choice to visit his old friend in Azkaban. Rated T for slash and language.


**Hi everyone! I took a little break from 'Love and Temptation' to write this kind of ansgty/fluffy one-shot (flangst?). I hope you enjoy it, and please tell me what you think! It's set during the musical while Quirrell is locked up in Azkaban, and hopefully ties in with the show ok. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or A Very Potter Musical, no matter how much I want to.**

**~Shego x **

_He missed Quirrell._

It had started off as a small sting, which had intensified into a painful throb whenever Voldemort thought of him. It had been a month since Quirrell had been sent away to Azkaban, even though he was falsely accused of his crime, and not a day had gone by when Voldemort hadn't thought of his friend.

Take now, for instance. He was sitting up in bed, way past midnight, and he just couldn't drop off. He'd been having trouble sleeping lately, and tonight was no exception. Infuriating as it was, he just couldn't get Quirrell out of his mind and the remorse was driving him crazy.

Bellatrix stirred next to him, groggily lifting her head for pillow as she squinted. "What's wrong, my Lord?"

Voldemort glanced at her tiredly, before roughly shaking his head. "Nothing."

"Hey," She purred, sitting up beside him so she could rub his shoulders. "Everything's going to plan. Soon you'll be the ultimate ruler of all time! There's no need to stress."

He smiled weakly, but deep down, he knew no excitement was felt at the idea of ruling the world anymore, no matter how much he'd tried to convince himself recently. "I know. I'm not."

"Then come on, go to sleep. Or better yet, if you're really not tired..." She trailed her fingers over his chest suggestively, grinning. "I'm all yours."

Voldemort sighed, then realised it would probably take his mind off of Quirrell for a bit, so he nodded, grabbing her and pulling her in for a kiss, which she excitedly received as she wrapped her legs around his waist. But still, just like every other time they'd made out since Quirrell had been locked up, it felt...wrong. He parted from her lips, a small frown on his face. "Hey...Bellatrix..."

"Yes, my Lord?" She asked doubtfully.

"I was wondering if...if it would be a good idea to, um..." No, no, he couldn't. What on earth would he say, anyway_? 'I was wondering if we could go to Azkaban and break my best friend out, because I'm so worried about him'_? Ridiculous. She'd never understand. To be honest he barely understood it himself. "If it would be a good idea to start planning our attack on Hogwarts." He amended quickly, inwardly cursing himself. "I mean, Potter won't destroy himself, right?"

She giggled, trailing kisses across his collarbone, unaware of his uncomfortable expression. "Absolutely, my liege! We'll get right on it...after we make love, of course."

"Right, yeah. Whatever." He muttered, trying not to show his exasperation at her one-track mind as they kissed once more. "Hey, Bella," He managed to say quickly as he broke apart from her again. She let out a disgruntled sigh before nodding for him to continue. "Why do they call it making love, anyway?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Well, y'know, it's when two people love each other and they wanna show it by sex."

"But _we_ don't even love each other, do we? We just fuck."

"Yeah, so?" She asked, sounding a little hurt for some reason which he decided not to dwell on.

"So why refer to it as making love? It's stupid. No one does it out of love anymore, they do it out of lust."

"Not everybody." She pointed out, "To be honest, my Lord, many treat it like it's something precious and shouldn't be done as often. Don't know how they manage, though. I'd explode if I was around you all the time and couldn't touch you." She began to suck on his neck, giggling, one hand reaching down by his waist, but he barely noticed, suddenly stuck in memory lane.

He remembered that night, when he and Quirrell had been attached and drunk from going to the Hogs Head, they'd had one of their sleepy discussions in bed. Quirrell had been uncomfortable when he'd questioned him about the girls they'd chatted up and had mumbled something about not being interested.

"Oh, come on, man!" Voldemort had smirked, "They were pretty hot, right? The blonde one?"

"I...um..."

"Fine, fine, what about the brunette, then? If I had my own body I think I'd have taken her back up here, if you know what I mean."

"I hope you're not suggesting you'd have had sex with her in my own bed." Quirrell scolded, folding his arms as Voldemort chuckled.

"Dude, I'm kidding. Come on, what's wrong with you?"

"My Lor - um, Voldemort,' He quickly corrected as Voldemort made a warning sound. "I'm sorry, but I'm just...not interested in girls." The last part was said in a whisper, as if Quirrell was embarrassed.

Voldemort frowned to himself, wishing he could see his friend's expression. "So...what does that mean?'"

"I only feel attracted to men." Quirrell's voice was still barely above a whisper, "I'm gay."

"Oh!" Realisation dawned and Voldemort laughed weakly, "Right, right, I get it. Why didn't you say anything, Quirrell? Did I make you feel uncomfortable? I wouldn't have tried to pick up chicks with you if I'd have known!"

"You...you d-don't mind?" Quirrell asked incredulously.

"What? Why would I mind?"

"Well, I can imagine I wasn't your ideal choice for a body host. A sissy, gay man who's been single all of his life –"

Voldemort's muddled brain had comprehended something new through the fog of alcohol and he frowned. "Whoa, wait. So, uh, if you've been single all of your life, you've never...you've never had sex?"

He felt Quirrell bury his face in his hands in embarrassment. "N-no, I haven't! Should I add that to the list? A sissy, gay virgin –"

"Dude, you have nothing to be ashamed of," Voldemort said quickly, feeling bad that he'd insulted his only friend. "I don't even care that you're gay OR a virgin! You're still my friend, right?"

"I am?"

"Of course. Why would I lie to you? You're a great guy, Quirrell. Your orientation doesn't affect that in the slightest."

"Thank you, Voldemort." Quirrell sounded surprised and pleased. "I didn't think you'd be so understanding. I'm really grateful."

"Don't be stupid."

"And you really don't think I'm lame for being a virgin?"

"Of course I don't think that."

"I just want to wait for the right person, you know?" Quirrell confided, sounding relieved to actually be talking about it to someone. "I just want...I want it to be special. Not mindless fucking, but actually making love."

That statement had stuck with Voldemort and he thought of it all through the mindless, almost mechanical sex with Bellatrix. Poor Quirrell. Poor, poor Quirrell who'd been nothing but betrayed and let down, over and over. Now he'd never get the chance to find someone worthy of him, being locked up in Azkaban. If he was even still alive...

Oh shit, no. He couldn't think like that. It was too terrible to even imagine. Of COURSE Quirrell was still alive...of course...

His teeth were beginning to chatter as he tossed and turned, Bellatrix sleeping soundly by his side. What if? What if Quirrell was sick, or insane, or...or dead? He was all alone in that cell, surrounded by merciless dementors and deranged inmates who were actually guilty of crimes. Voldemort had to face the cold, hard truth - it would almost be better if Quirrell _was_ dead than subjected to that torture for much longer. It had already been a month, which in Azkaban was as good as a lifetime.

Voldemort sat up, tossing the covers off of him as he paced towards his window. He rubbed his jaw fiercely, sighing as he tried to contemplate why he cared so much about this man who had only been brought into his life to serve him. But he knew, deep down, that Quirrell was so much more than that - he was a trustworthy, wonderful friend, something he'd never had before. And there was something else about him, something Voldemort had never dared to imagine...

When he'd seen him properly that night at the graveyard, he'd been stunned at how attractive Quirrell actually was, how sweet and beautiful his face and excitable smile were. And then Voldemort had torn that look apart, replacing it with an expression of betrayal and bewilderment as he'd been led away by the Death Eaters. That look still haunted Voldemort, making him feel numb and cold inside. Now every time he thought of Quirrell there was a painful flutter in his chest and his cheeks grew warm. It had become a regular occurrence, and he was only now piecing together what it might mean. Only now, alone with his thoughts, had he come to terms with it. He felt his face grow hot as he finally admitted it to himself; he was attracted to Quirrell. He had feelings for him. How the fuck had THAT happened?

It was no use. He had to see him. He had to see if he was alright. He'd never be able to forgive himself if anything terrible had happened to him. But how the hell could he just waltz into Azkaban? His Death Eaters followed him everywhere, especially Bellatrix, and the Azkaban dementors surrounded the prison no matter what. Perhaps Voldemort could intimidate one on its own, demanding to visit a prisoner or he'd murder everyone in the place so they couldn't suck any more souls or something. Yeah…maybe…

He returned to bed with a troubled mind, mulling over every opportunity, until dawn broke and he was woken up by Bellatrix kissing his face. "Get off," He grouched, moving away from her, causing her to hastily back off, even though a smile was still on her face.

"Sorry, my Lord. Sometimes I just can't help myself." She teased, the smile dropping from her face as he stood up. "Hey, where are you going?"

"I don't know. Out." He muttered back as he moved to the door, only to bump into another of his Death Eaters, who was carrying the latest Daily Prophet.

"My apologies, my Dark King!" The man said quickly, sinking into a deep bow.

"S'ok, it was my fault." Voldemort replied lamely, not even bothering to keep an intimidating demeanour. His eyes widened as he saw the headline on the paper and snatched it from the Death Eater's hands, a sickening feeling beginning to stir in the pit of his stomach.

_Quirinus Quirrell - currently in Azkaban for Hogwarts Student Cedric Diggory's Murder - to Receive Dementor's Kiss?_

Voldemort skimmed over the article, his heart slamming against his ribcage as panic began to set in. "Dementor's kiss?" He finally croaked, looking up at the Death Eater. Bellatrix had made her way to his side after shrugging on a dressing robe and was reading the article from over his shoulder. "Why're they thinking of that? There's no need to do that! He isn't even guilty!"

Bellatrix practically cackled, bent over with laughter. "Oh, Wizard God, look at the picture! Look how pathetic he is!"

Voldemort hadn't even noticed, but there it was; a small moving picture of Quirrell in his prison robe, huddled in the corner of his cell, rocking back and forth. His head was buried in his knees so Voldemort couldn't see his face, but the skinny, broken image of his body was enough.

"I gotta go." He said numbly, shoving the newspaper at Bellatrix and hurrying out of the door.

"Go? Go where? Wait!" She scurried after him down the hallway, struggling to match his quickened pace. "My liege, what's wrong?"

"Leave me alone," He snapped, then realised he wasn't even properly dressed. He growled to himself, turning to face her. "Fetch me my cape, ok? I'm going out for a bit."

She looked uncertain, but bowed anyway and hurried off. In a few moments she returned, clutching his cape and offering it to him hesitantly. "You're not _concerned _for that pawn, are you?" She asked dubiously as he shrugged his cape on. "Is that why you're acting so strange?"

"I'm not acting strange. I just want some air."

"Well. Ok, then. Hey, be back soon, though! We need to plan the attack on Hogwarts, remember?"

"Oh. Yeah, fine." He replied blearily, checking his wand was in the waistband of his tights as usual. "See you later." He didn't even wait for her reply and Disapparated.

The first thing he did when he landed on the island of Azkaban was wince at the bitter coldness, wishing he'd bothered to put on a sweater or something instead of his trademark cape. Once he'd gotten over the initial shock of the chilled air, he rubbed his arms and glanced up at the intimidating prison, which was typically surrounded by dementors. Well, fuck. He really hadn't thought this through.

He persisted nonetheless, his wand out as he advanced towards the prison, the terrified screams gradually meeting his ears the closer he got. Did Quirrell contribute to these horrible noises that emitted from the bars of the cells as well? Almost definitely. It was getting so foggy as he got nearer that it was becoming difficult to actually see which direction he was going in. The screams were beginning to pierce into his head and he closed his eyes, feeling a little sick.

"Quirrell?" He called out stupidly, immediately cursing himself and backing away in case his voice had alerted the dementors. His hand was over his mouth and he shook his head in irritation at his carelessness, but he couldn't help himself. He just wanted to hear Quirrell's voice amidst the awful screams, or to let his poor friend know that he was here to help him.

Taking slow breaths, Voldemort pointed his wand into the gloom, muttering "_Lumos" _and navigating himself around the dreary building. He decided he didn't care about the dementors anymore and if they got in his way, so be it. They'd realise it was too late soon enough.

"Hey!" He hollered as he neared. "It's the Dark Lord here, bitches! And I _demand_ to be let in!"

A dementor swooped down to him almost instantly, its cloaked head stooped and Voldemort sneered, pointing his wand at it. "What brings you here?" It asked in a surprisingly high-pitched voice.

"Glad you asked." Voldemort stepped forward. "I need access to a prisoner. Quirinus Quirrell?"

The dementor tilted its head in acknowledgement. "I know the one."

"I need to see him. I'm also not letting any of you give him the Kiss, do you understand? What reason do you even have?"

"He has asked for it."

Voldemort stopped. Had he heard right? He couldn't have. Why would Quirrell _ask _to receive a Dementor's Kiss?

The dementor obviously noticed his confusion. "Yes. He has stated that if we will not kill him, we can take his soul. He has given up on life anyway."

"Take me to him." Voldemort hissed, his hand holding the wand trembling. "Take me to him or I'll blast you apart."

"I cannot allow you to take him from the jail."

"Fine!" Voldemort snapped. "But let me see him, anyway! Let me talk to him."

"You may see him, but you must be quick."

Voldemort blinked in surprise. "Really? I – I mean, yes! Good. Take me to him right now, or I won't hesitate in killing all of your kind!"

"I understand. Follow me."

As the dementor turned away, Voldemort allowed himself a moment to compose himself, hastily wiping his eyes which were suspiciously misty. _Oh, Quirrell, _he thought desperately, _Quirrell, I am so sorry…_

Before he knew it, he was inside the prison and his heart rate had increased drastically. The screaming and sobbing coming from inside the cells were so loud now that he was getting a severe headache. But it wasn't only that; soon he would be seeing Quirrell again. He'd be able to tell him that he was going to be safe soon, because Voldemort sure as hell was going to find a way to bust him out. His palms were getting sweaty and his throat inexplicably dry as the dementor stopped at a cell and gestured for him to look inside.

Voldemort swallowed and anxiously stepped forward, looking through the bars. Quirrell was curled up in the corner of the cell, his fist in his mouth as he shook uncontrollably. He wasn't making any noise, but tears were falling from his agonised eyes, trailing down his sunken cheeks as he rocked back and forth. He was so pale, and dangerously skinny, as if he hadn't been fed for the entire month he'd spent in captivity.

"I'll tell him he has a guest, shall I?" Before Voldemort could form a coherent answer from his initial shock at the sight of Quirrell, the dementor had opened the cell door and had entered, leaving Voldemort helplessly standing in the corridor.

"Hey!" The dementor snapped, causing Quirrell's head to jerk up and the man to shriek, his hands over his ears.

"P-p-please! N-n-no m-more!" He sobbed, scrambling further against the wall with his eyes screwed shut. "I'm b-begging you! I'll d-do what e-e-ever you w-want, but p-please don't t-t-take my m-memories!"

"Shut up." The dementor ordered, and Voldemort wanted to kill it with a burning passion. "You have a visitor."

Quirrell dared to open his eyes as he slowly lowered his hands, looking up at the dementor. "W-what?" He croaked, his voice broken and jagged, as if glass was down his throat.

"Someone has come to see you." The dementor turned its head and Voldemort took a shaky step forward into the cell, his whole body seizing up.

Quirrell's eyes met his and Voldemort felt his heart almost burst at how dead and unresponsive they were. He knelt down so he was in front of Quirrell, and tried to give him a reassuring smile. Quirrell buried his face in his hands, edging away from him, and without warning broke down in heart-wrenching sobs. "S-s-stop!"

Voldemort stared at him in a panic, hesitantly reaching forward to touch his bony knee. "Quirrell?" He whispered, "Quirrell, it's me."

"S-stop, please! It's a-all a t-t-trick! Y-you want t-to make m-m-me happy, o-only to s-suck the f-f-feeling from m-my b-b-body!" He wept at the dementor, who simply stood there.

Voldemort turned his head to the dementor. "Leave us." He warned, pointing his wand at it. "Stand outside if you must, but please leave the cell."

"Certainly," The dementor said quickly, floating towards the door. "You have five minutes or I shall have to inform the Ministry of your presence."

Voldemort ignored it, turning back to Quirrell, who was still sobbing in his curled up position. "Quirrell…Come on, please don't…don't cry. It's me, I'm here. And I _promise_ you, I'll get you out of this place."

Quirrell lifted his head again, his mouth trembling as he reached a hand out and touched Voldemort's face, making the Dark Lord's cheeks heat up. "You're…r-r-real?"

"Of course I am."

Quirrell's face twisted into one of fury. "What a-are y-you doing h-h-here? Do y-you have s-some other t-task you n-n-need me to d-do?"

Voldemort was taken aback, both at the venom in his words and at how bad his stutter had become. "I've been worried about you," He said lamely, "And…I saw in the Prophet, you might be getting the Kiss and I freaked –"

"I've b-been here f-for _y-y-years!"_

Voldemort felt sick and he reached for Quirrell's hand. "It's only been a month, Quirrell. I know how horrible and long this must feel for you, but –"

Quirrell put a shaky hand to his mouth as more sobs broke free, tears now streaming from his hollow eyes. "A month? I c-can't do i-i-it! Why h-haven't they k-k-kissed me y-yet?"

"Ssh, ssh," Voldemort whispered, feeling his own eyes begin to sting. "Come on, now. Don't talk like that."

"This isn't r-real," Quirrell whispered to himself, his eyes darting from side to side, "They're t-t-tricking you l-like b-b-before. Don't f-fall for it, Q-Quirinus, n-n-not again…"

"What do you mean? Have the dementor's told you I was here in the past?" Voldemort frowned, gently squeezing his hand.

"N-n-not real…" Quirrell repeated brokenly, ripping his hand away. "Leave m-me alone!"

"Quirrell, you need to listen to me." Voldemort said firmly, gripping onto his shoulders, causing the terrified man to yelp and attempt to struggle out of his grasp. "This is me. Voldemort. Your friend, remember? I know what an asshole I've been, and you don't deserve _any_ of this, but believe me when I say you'll be out of here soon. Once I've killed Potter, I'm coming to get you, I promise –"

"A-always P-P-Potter," Quirrell said numbly, "A-a-always the D-Dark Lord's p-p-priority."

Something in Voldemort's usually emotionless heart throbbed painfully and he didn't know what to say, except for a weak, "I'm sorry."

Quirrell shook his head bitterly, flinching away as Voldemort wiped the tears from Quirrell's pale and withdrawn face. "A-are they g-g-gonna ki-iss me?"

"No." Voldemort said stonily. "You're not getting the Kiss, do you understand? No way in Hell."

"I c-can't go o-on like this," The young man begged, "P-please, I w-w-want it to s-stop!"

"It will. Soon, I promise, you'll be free."

"Your time is up. I'm afraid you must leave." The dementor had returned and Quirrell whimpered again, looking at Voldemort desperately.

"If y-y-you were r-real, and m-my friend, you'd g-g-get me out of h-here!" He whispered, "Y-you'd tell them th-that I'm i-innocent!"

Voldemort bit his lip anxiously, then murmured a spell with his wand, causing a flower to burst from its tip. He passed the daisy to Quirrell, closing his fist around it. "Here. When it gets especially hard, this is for you to remember that I'm coming back for you and that I care for you. Stay strong for me, ok? You're going to be alright."

Quirrell looked at him in disbelief through his tears. "Y-y-you have no _i-idea _what it's l-like here! I – am – not – alright!" He wheezed, then without warning drew back his fist and weakly punched Voldemort in the chest, over and over. "Y-you b-bastard!"

"Quirrell, enough! Come on, man!" Voldemort said desperately, catching his hand. "The dementor's will tell the Ministry of my whereabouts if I don't leave, and they'll probably kill me. I can't take you with me, no matter how much I want to. We'd probably both end up dead."

"_Good_!" Quirrell shrieked, his hands over his ears again. "I w-w-want to die! And y-you deserve d-death too, y-y-you traitorous –"

The dementor approached and gripped Quirrell's wrist, forcing him back. "That is no way to speak to your visitor now, is it?"

"Hey!" Voldemort snapped, pointing his wand at the dementor once more. "Keep _away_ from him! Quirrell?" He turned back to the sobbing man and before he knew what he was doing, wrapped him up in a hug. Quirrell tried to squirm away, but Voldemort was far too strong and he whispered in his ear. "Wait for me. I won't let you down again." He kissed the spot next to his friend's ear, resulting in a startled gasp, before regretfully pulling away and standing up.

"Don't worry," the dementor cackled, "He's in good hands with us, aren't you, Quirinus? I for one am _so_ pleased He Who Must Not Be Named has shown up, as now I can devour your newfound happiness –"

Quirrell stumbled to his feet and in a fit of fury, lunged pointlessly at his captor. Voldemort stepped between them hurriedly, propelling Quirrell back, even though he himself was shaking in anger. "You're making it worse." He told him firmly. "Even though it's good to see some fighting spirit in you, you won't help matters by attempting to fight dementors."

"That is very true." The dementor agreed. "But I am afraid you must come with me now. Like I said, your time is up."

"Don't hurt him. Don't Kiss him." Voldemort said quietly. "He doesn't deserve any of this. He's only in here because of me."

"He is here because he murdered Cedric Diggory. Besides, what does it matter to you? You are the Dark Lord."

Quirrell had moaned miserably at the mention of Cedric and had slumped back to the floor. Voldemort knew he should fight, that he should defend Quirrell's name and get him out of this place, but something stopped him – something called his reputation, which he himself was so desperate to cling on to. Being evil was all he had, after all, and if he couldn't even manage that, what use was he?

"You're right." He nodded. "I _am _the Dark Lord. Lead the way."

The dementor nodded and turned, allowing Voldemort to look at Quirrell one more time. The man stared back at him blankly, but his hollow eyes held a sign of contempt. That look hurt more than anything and Voldemort quickly turned away, walking out of the cell after the dementor, no matter how much his conscience begged him to turn back.

_Quirrell was always a distraction, _He told himself firmly, _you have one goal, and that is your revenge on Harry Potter. Are you seriously going to throw it away for some old slave who served his purpose? Besides, he clearly wants nothing to do with you…And no wonder…_

Voldemort stood outside Azkaban miserably, staring up at the gloomy building. It was no use arguing with himself; one way or another, he knew what he wanted. One day he'd be reunited with Quirrell, and he'd make him see how important he was. One day…

He just hoped Quirrell would forgive him. But that look in his deadened eyes had physically hurt Voldemort so much, he wasn't sure if he ever would. He'd _have _to, though. Voldemort didn't think he'd be able to cope if Quirrell stayed mad at him forever.

When Potter was dead, Voldemort would rule everything. Then he'd be able to go back to Azkaban and get Quirrell out. He wasn't sure what they'd do afterwards, and Bellatrix probably wouldn't be happy about seeing the ex-professor, but he'd figure something out.

Whatever happened, he would come back for Quirrell.

THE END

**And of course, due to the beautiful ending in AVPM, we know that Voldy DOES come back for Quirrell :') **

**Please tell me what you thought of this, I'd love to hear your opinions! **


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